So I hit the road for Birmingham on Sunday night, to stay at a decent hotel and enjoy a few days away from the hellhole I know as Asslanta. Time for another mini-vacation, oh my brothers and sisters. See, when I take these quick little road trips, all I ask when I’m visiting a different city is cold beer, comfortable living quarters, decent weather, good times and a change of atmosphere that I can appreciate. Maybe a pool table. Monday would be slow and settling, and I’d have a chance to relax a bit while doing some “Spring cleaning.” But, of course, I wanted to get the beer first.

Here’s where, as usual, it all started to go wrong:

First of all, if you’re going to cop some brews before noon while on a mini-vacation, don’t ever – ever – ever, buy, drink, taste or even look at those Budweiser + Clamato beers they sell at the gas stations.

It still may be too early to make such a broad and timeless statement, but this has got to be the worst beer that anyone ever made. If you want a colorful review, I’d say that Bud/Clamato tastes like the original brewer/inventor took one sip of his own creation, killed himself and had his assistant pour his blood into the entire vat, before packaging it in 16 oz. cans and sending them across America.


I didn’t know no better at the time; I just saw an opportunity for adventure, and I like trying new beer, so I’m usually down to take a taste test experiment, as long as it’s not malt liquor. Plus, I do Corona every now and then, so I figured I was safe. So I copped the four-pack from a Racetrak for $5.24, and swooped back around the corner to my sound-proof suite at Hotel Underwriter. The plan was to sit on those 64 oz’s and use the whole day to pimp my priorities.

What I discovered after taking my first sip is that I’d rather drink a goat’s bathwater than to ever drink a Budweiser Clamato again. I thought it was just Bud’s first attempt at a Chelada. If you aren’t familiar with Chelada-styled beers, they’re pre-mixed with salt and lime. They’re usually pretty good, like a Corona after you doctor it up. So, since I’ve already rocked with Miller Chill, I figured that since Bud’s versions looked way mo’ gangsta in the 16 oz aluminum can, it would probably be more authentic. If not, at least it would be only a half step down from a Corona, like Miller, so there was nothing to lose.


My immediate reaction: this is disgusting, nasty, pre-historic dookie water. After the first gulp, I almost ralphed into my rented kitched sink. I picked up the can, eyes wide open, and looked at the nutritional info on the side of the can for any abnormalities. Oh, the horror: “Contains: Shellfish / Clams.”

*Further quoted reaction has been censored by editors*

Let’s just say I was pissed. $5 US gone, just because Anheuser-Busch wanted to compete with Miller for the Mexican beer market. Speaking of which, why the eff would Mexicans drink clam-flavored tomato juice beer? Who knows. If only I had CLICKED HERE before wasting my money. Oh well; may the brewmaster’s soul eternally sizzle in the poisonous Budweiser dewshpot without ever being sipped again. This shit juice excuse for a Chelada-style beer can simply be described with two words. Liquid ass. Nolo.

100% CO-SIGN.

Stay tuned for “The Birmingham Fiasco.”




If you noticed, I've been conspicuously absent from the blog game in the last month. Why? Well, it's a mixture of salty feelings, bad time management and lack of inspiration. Of course, there's been plenty of bucket-kicking going down in the entertainment industry, as always, which I noticed and allowed to pass. Others have taken up the slack, which I greatly appreciate.

But now, I hesitate to say that I'm all the way back on my game, but I'm definitely getting back in the groove of thangs. It's funny; every book I've read recently that deals with career goals and such (The 4-Hour Work Week) has flagrantly suggested that I stop spending so much time online and focus on a book, if that is indeed the goal for which I'm aiming to meet. It gets difficult to stay away from distraction, but it also intensifies my focus, I can't deny.

The only blog I haven't checked recently is DALLAS PENN. That's because Billy Sunday pretty much always stays consistent, even when I don't check in. Good writers aren't usually that persistent. Hats off to the homie.

Other blogs I eff with would include anything on my blogroll and a few others, like DAILY KOS, DEFAMER and a few others. I don't really dig most mainstream blogs other than Bossip, because they all tend to share info and re-report things that others discovered, as if they found the info themselves. I do the same, but damn! If that's all it takes, then why the eph am I not rich yet?

MEDIA TAKE OUTwould be a great one, if they didn't put up pure bullshit and wait for someone to discredit their reporting, which is all innuendo anyway. I guess their mentality is that it doesn't matter, as long as they have millions of readers. Quick to misprint public and private business, then retract back for deaf ears, and think it's dismissed? Pa-fucking-thetic. Word to OutKast. But at least they're consistent, which you haven't recently seen from the homie THE UNDERWRITER.

That's why I'm in the middle of a ATL divorce. I've left my 12-year wifey several times, and yet I always find my way back into the city's shitty panties, just because I was too lazy and too entrenched to move away. I tried going back to Alabama and to Tennessee, with no long-term luck. Every time I felt that was that, she called me right back, and I answered. Owatayfooliyam.

But now, I'm really, really, reaally sick of my surroundings; totally, dude. It's so bad that these days I get invited to free shit all the time, with free drinks, food and celebrity dewshes of all sorts. But these socialites and celebritits are no more deserving of their influence and small pond fame than the nameless hooker that served Governor Spitzer with a $4K dirty sanchez buffet.

I'm deadicated to being a writer, but I'm so sick of being nice to assorted prick ticklers who don't pay like they weigh. That doesn't include you, my dear reader, so I apologize for getting my contacts twisted. But really, haven't you ever felt like you've helped hundreds of people, and nobody turned around and said, "Preshate it," or at least, "Let me return the favor?" (nolo). Well, that's my mojo right now. Ain't no love in the heart of the reaper, because my crops are looking dry as fuck right now, all because I haven't been all the asshole I can truly be (nolo). But I am still, underneath all this UNDERWRITER drapery that I wear on the net, a cool cat that likes to associate with other ill creatives. Plus, I'm THE BEST WRITER ALIVE.

So, for the record, until I get my shit right, I'm only putting up one blog a week. That's supposed to be the format anyway, but sometimes I get crunk off those funny cigarettes and go for minez, on some prolific fuckery type of shit, like I have miles to go before I sleep. Right now, it's a recession, and not just in terms of the economy. As the main writer of this blog, I'm supposed to keep the good times rolling, but I'd rather be honest and tell you, oh my brothers and sisters, that sometimes, even THE UNDERWRITER gets a little pissy and wants to walk away. It's human nature. Fortunately, again, I'm still
, and soon enough, I just might prove it in hardback form.

Until then, keep checking in. Don't say I don't keep it 100.

C'entanni, bitches!